Telling Tales

by James Washburn

Chapter Seven - Nightmare Moon Meets Her Match

Chapter Seven

Nightmare Moon Meets Her Match

You see, during the brief reign of Nightmare Moon, the Dark Tithes were established (Or, to use its proper name, the ‘Stygian Adjustment Tax’), the original basis for Nightmare Night. Every farmer was to give half of his crop directly to the Crown, so as to ensure food was distributed equally. Of course, since it was dark all the time, all crops had to be grown by lamplight. Farmers could hardly grow enough to feed themselves, let alone create a surplus, so the Tithe meant that inevitably they’d go hungry.

So one farmer (his name was Dutch Hoe) had had enough. He only had a small farm and the Tithe always hit him hardest, so he came up with a Plan. He went to the palace to seek an audience with Nightmare Moon. Now, she was eager to be seen as a benevolent and kind (which she wasn’t), so she let him grovel before her.

“Now, little pony,” she said, and she didn’t say ‘little pony’ the same way Celestia does. She knew you were little, and wanted to rub it in. “Why have you come?”

“Your Majesty,” he said, with a bow. “I have come to ask which half of my crop you would like this year.”

“Which half?” she said, puzzled.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Would you like the half that grows above the ground, or the half that grows below the ground?”

“Well, what is it that you usually grow?”

“I usually grow wheat, you majesty.”

Nightmare Moon laughed, a deep and terrible laugh, like an echo from deep space.

“Why, then I’ll have half that grows above the ground!”

Dutch bowed again. “Very well, your majesty, as you demand.”

And he left and went back to his farm.

Time passed as time does, and all too soon it was harvest time. The farmers all took in their miserable crops and heaped up half for themselves and half for the Crown. Nightmare Moon herself went around with the taxponies and assessors to oversee the gathering of the Tithe. She took a bite of every farmer’s lot, just to make sure they weren’t trying anything on. Eventually, it came to Dutch Hoe’s farm, where a huge pile of fronds lay outside.

“Dutch Hoe! Is this half of your crop?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said, humbly. “The half that grew above ground.”

Nightmare Moon leaned in and took a bite, just to check. She spat it out in an instant.

“What is the meaning of this?” she said, spluttering. “It’s vile! How is this suitable tithe?”

“Your Majesty, you asked for whatever grew above ground. I grew carrots,” he said, smiling.

Nightmare Moon raged and roared, stamped and stormed. She cursed Dutch Hoe and the ground he walked on, cursed his family to the Nth generation, but in the end, she took her half and left. Before she did though, she had A Word with Dutch.

“Well, little pony, if that’s how it’s going to be, next time I’ll have what grows UNDER the ground!”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” said Dutch, still smiling.

So another year passed. Dutch Hoe grew his crops and around him, the nation grew weary of Nightmare Moon’s tyranny. Soon enough, it was harvest season again. The farmers arranged their crops in two piles, and Nightmare Moon and her taxponies came to collect. They took potatoes, apples, corn and all sorts, and soon enough, they reached Dutch’s farm. But all he had in his tithe pile was a heap of roots.

“What the devil is this?!” cried Nightmare Moon. “Dutch Hoe, is this half your crop?”

“Certainly is, Your Majesty,” he replied, smiling. “The half that grew under the ground, just like you asked.”

“But I thought-”

“I grew wheat, Your Majesty.”

Nightmare Moon raged again. She stomped about, she threatened to blast Dutch Hoe’s farm to dust, to blast him into dust, but in the end she struck upon an easier solution. The Dark Tithe was to be collected from every farmer in Equestria. Every farmer, except Dutch Hoe. She had Plans for him.

She sent her Night Guards to bring him to her, for some punishment so terrible it’d be talked about for years to come in hushed tones, but when they got there, they found Dutch Hoe gone. He’d taken his surplus crops, hitched them on to his back and taken off for parts unknown.

* * *

There was a resounding round of applause, and Tales took a moment to take it in, smiling half in relief. Pretty in Purple was still sulking, of course.

“Well, it’s all the same now, of course,” said Tales, addressing the audience, but looking at her. “Princess Luna’s restored to us, and the Kingdom’s rejoiced.”

She just shuffled around to avoid eye contact. He frowned and thought for a moment. He could hear his old tutors, screaming at him to stop making this personal. You’re telling to a crowd, not an individual, they’d have shouted. Focus, you silly colt! A few stories, then we go on our way to Connemara! Not a personal vendetta!

“It doesn’t seem very appropriate to dwell on her past,” said Pretty in Purple, sulkily.

Well, that was that. From that, there was no stopping him.

“Well then what else am I supposed to tell?”

“I don’t know, anything!”

“Anything, huh? Well why don’t you try then, eh? If it’s so godamn easy to tell stories at the drop of a hat, why don’t YOU?”

He grinned nastily, until he realised Pretty in Purple was holding his gaze, and she was smiling back. That, he supposed, was worse than any violent outburst. He knew that smile. He’d seen mares smile that smile before. It meant she had a plan. He tried to think of some way to apologise, to take it back, but she was already standing up and walking over to him and he knew it was too late. She cleared her throat, quite calmly and faced the crowd.

"Well, I happen to know a story,” she said, icily. “I might not be able to embellish like you do, but I still think I have one or to two worth telling.”

Tales didn’t dare contradict her. Not if she was putting inflexions like that on the word ‘embellish’. Inflexions like that could do a pony some serious injury. She cleared her throat politely.

Twilight was not, for the most part, a pony given to theatrics. She did what she did, and did it in a well-organised and reasonable manner. She was not, and had never thought of herself as a performer. She had no spiel, no rapport and no experience. Luckily, she didn’t know that she needed it.

What she did know, was that she didn’t strictly speaking, have a story. Oh she had history, battles, princes, princesses, magic weapons, and such, but as for stories....

Well, there was one. She remembered it with the smell of cocoa, dragon smoke and almonds. Smells of the Palace, smells of the Princess. She cleared her throat, and began.

“When Spike was little, he used to be a real hoof-ful. I haven’t much experience with foals,” she said, with a pointed look to Mr. and Mrs. Cake, “but I know Spike. And when Spike’s bad, he’s bad.”

The aforementioned dragon in the second row folded his arms and harrumphed, but said nothing.

“So whenever he got too much, I told him this story about what happens to dragons who go bad...”

Comments

[Elden andel]

Huh. This is a variant I haven't heard. The one I know it was what is above, below, and in-between. Nicely translated though two thumbs up.

[jszellmer]

4511024 I've heard versions like that, where the farmer grows carrots/potatoes, wheat and corn, respectively.

[CrystalWaters]

I recall a similar story I'd heard in the past which ended with the pony living inside the very thick (and hollow) walls of a house neatly avoiding Nightmare Moon's vengeance.

I find myself liking this ending more, it seems like something an eminently sensible earth pony might do.